Backtrack
by The Bad Joke
Summary: He takes a train. But it only takes him halfway.


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**Backtrack**_  
but don't go and leave me behind_

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**December, 1994**

He takes a train.

_Go back._

But it only takes him halfway.

_Go back._

His money is worthless in this country. If he attempted to buy another ticket with it, he would be laughed at.

He decides to walk.

He doesn't know Russian, so he asks someone in his best English the quickest way to get to Moscow, walking. He has to ask twenty-nine people this before someone actually takes him seriously. That, yes, he wants to know how to get to Moscow by using his own two feet, not a train, or a car, or a bicycle. Feet. Finally, someone tells him as far as they know. He says thank you and moves on.

It's so cold here during the winter. He really should have picked a better time to do this, but it might have been too late if he decided on a different time. He is wearing an undershirt, three shirts, and two coats - one more heavy than the other - and they are still not enough to keep him warm. On top of that, he layered so many socks onto his feet that he is unable to freely move his toes. His body shakes. He should have put more layers on, especially since it's winter. He finds himself coughing and sneezing into his scarf.

So cold.

He left the house before the sun was even up, but now it looks like it is going to set soon. He wonders if he is almost there. He passes by what looks like a convenient store and goes to ask for more directions, in English. However, no one in the store knows the language. He would attempt Russian, he really would, but he never cared to learn it. Back then, right after the Berlin Wall went up, he thought it would be a slap to the face if he learned it. But now it would be no doubt useful. Right as he goes to leave, the shop owner appears and says that he can help him. When he goes to speak, the shop owner quickly realizes his German accent, says something in Russian, and starts laughing at him. His face turns hot, and without a word more, he leaves.

He walks the entire night with a thoughtless head.

He wakes up exhausted on a bench, in a city. He doesn't remember stopping to rest. He doesn't remember walking this far. When he stands up, he hears all of the notches in his spine crack. He stretches briefly and goes back to walking. He debates on asking for directions again, but he decides against it. He can find his own way.

It is almost sunset when he finds the house. It is obvious that no one has been taking care of the property; the snow piling around the house is evidence of this. He gets stuck in waist-high snow several times while making his way to the front door. By the time he has reached his destination, he is soaked and freezing from the waist down. Shivering, he hurriedly knocks on the door. When there is no response, he knocks again.

And again

And again.

Still knocking.

He will break this door down. He swears to the god that may or may not exist that he will. He did not get soaking wet to turn around. He did not walk all this way to turn around. He did not leave the house without telling his brother where he was going to turn around. In frustration, he kicks the door once. Twice. Still no response. In about three seconds he will break this fucking door down.

One.

Two.

Thr-

"What?" an irritated voice says. He looks up to see a woman's face with an expression that matches the tone of her voice. She only has the door open a few inches, as if she is blocking him out. Like she is about to shut it on him any second now. He might just scream if she does.

"Oh, it's _you_," she says, with a tinge of disgust, eyeing him. "What do you want?"

He looks at her, dumbstruck at first. Before he has a chance to respond, she speaks.

"You want to see my brother, don't you?" she asks, opening the door some more now, leaning on the frame. She observes his face, red from the cold and sneezing. His clothes, drenched to the point where they are sticking to his skin. There is something in her eyes, but he can't tell what it is. Sympathy? Pity? Probably pity.

All he does is nod, cautiously. Mostly because he doesn't want to push any buttons. But then again, nodding could set her off. Hopefully it won't, but if it does, she can hit him, he really wouldn't care. As long as she doesn't shut him out.

"Why do you want to see him?"

"I need to...talk to him about something."

"About wha-?"

"Can I come in?"

Shit, that didn't come out right. He even sounded irritated saying that, which he can't lie, he really is irritated. He only walked hours in the fucking snow, in the fucking cold to get here. His legs hurt and his head aches and his skin must be getting frostbitten by now. Still, he should not have done that. Now she really is going to be upset.

"I'm sorry," he says a bit too quickly.

"It's fine," she says, sighing. "Come in."

She opens the door fully and moves out of the way. At first, he just stares at her, waiting for her to laugh or to shut the door in his face. Neither of these things happen, though. She gives him a puzzled look before walking away. He watches as she is consumed by the house. When he can't see her anymore, he steps in and shuts the door behind him. Instantly, he feels relief. All of the stress he put on his muscles hit him like a bullet and in a matter of seconds he is on his knees, listening to his body screech. As he is on the ground he begins peeling the wet clothing from his body, all except for his pants, which are the most drenched of all his clothing. Walking around in someone's house in your underwear just wouldn't feel right for obvious reasons.

His feet drag across the ground as he walks through the house. He doesn't get very far, though; he passes out on the couch. He sleeps, but no dreams invade his head. And he's grateful. Lately, his dreams have been playing tricks on him. He will dream and when he wakes up the next morning, he believes that the dream really happened, that it is reality. He only realizes that it is not when someone points this out to him. His dreams are full of false situations and lies and things he wants to forget. He needs to forget.

He needs to talk to Ivan.

A hand is over his forehead when he wakes. He is still on the couch, but now he is wrapped in blankets. He feels so warm. This feeling of being caught in blankets and being looked after is so disturbingly familiar. He remembers when he was like this, sick and in bed, constantly. And he hates it. This is what dying feels like. His forces himself to sit up, maybe a bit too fast. The person hovering above him moves just in time; he would have bumped into the other person otherwise.

"Are you okay?" a concerned voice says.

A concerned voice that belongs to Ivan says.

Ivan.

He finds himself exhaling deeply and pressing his head against Ivan's chest. He just rests it there, without a word, without a thought. By just being near this man, he can convince himself that he feels a ton better. He lays off him and goes back to just sitting up, hurting. He looks up at Ivan's face. He looks tired.

"I missed you."

"It's only been four years," Ivan says lightheartedly with a smile.

"It felt like a long time," he says, and quickly adds, "For me, anyway."

"You are being over dramatic," Ivan says, still smiling. "Is that why you came all this way to see me?"

"Yes."

He hesitates.

He's only half-lying.

He wraps his arms around Ivan and pulls him into an embrace. The other man tenses at this, at first, but a few seconds go by and he feels his muscles relax. He feels Ivan's hand in his hair. He pats his head, almost like he is a dog, or something, but he doesn't care. He can do what he wants to him, and he won't care.

He must be tired because, again, he falls asleep. Only this time Ivan is in his arms.

"Gilbert?"

Gilbert realizes that he is on a bed now. He isn't wearing any clothes. Was he wearing any before he fell asleep for a second time? He thought he was, but he doesn't know for sure. It doesn't matter anyway, he supposes. He slips under the covers and looks over to Ivan, who is besides him. Even if it's dark, he can tell that he isn't wearing anything, either. He wonders if they had sex, and he doesn't remember anything, or something ridiculous like that. He sinks deeper under the blankets and catches Ivan staring at him. They both just look at each other for a while. Gilbert clears his throat to end their eyelock.

"There's something that I need to tell you."

Pause.

"Okay."

Suddenly, his heart decides to hide in his stomach and his throat begins to tighten up. He tries to speak, but he can't, as if some unknown force just stole his voice. He has to clear his throat to get it to loosen up enough to speak. That is, if he can find where his voice went. Ivan just waits patiently. Some time passes. He feels like an idiot. He lets his head sink into a pillow.

"It's okay. Whatever it is, you can tell me, hm?"

"Promise you won't get angry with me?" Gilbert asks, lifting his head from the pillow.

Ivan pauses before responding with, "I'm not making any promises."

Here goes everything.

"I'm dying."

The room meets a whole new type of silence with those words. Both Gilbert and Ivan are stuck frozen. Gilbert, because he does not know how the other man is going to respond. Ivan, because he doesn't know how to respond. A few seconds turn into a few minutes. A few minutes turn into _I just lost track of time completely_. How does he kill the silence?

"Ivan?"

He starts laughing. Gilbert didn't know what to expect - _anger maybe?_ - but if he had to guess anything, he would have never guessed Ivan would_ laugh_ at him. He stares, shocked at first, but soon anger takes over. His eyebrows furrow and he has the urge to hit him. Instead of resorting to violence, he says:

"Shut up."

Ivan doesn't. This just makes him laugh even harder.

"I said shut the fuck up."

"You are kidding, right? About the whole dying thing?" Ivan asks, with a humorous smile on his face.

"Do I fucking_ look_ like I'm kidding?" Gilbert practically screams. He throws his pillow at Ivan's stupid face and pulls the blanket over his head, turning away from the other man. He is shaking with a thousand emotions. They are all flying around his pounding head. If he could to grab a couple, they would be _rage, betrayal, rage, rage, rage, and why are you such a fucking jerk you've always been one._

"You came all this way to tell me you're dying," Ivan says, mostly to himself, sounding a tad disappointed. "You're so stupid."

Gilbert barely recognizes that the hands wrapped around Ivan's throat, squeezing slightly, are his own.

"You think I'm stupid? I'm stupid because I care about you? I'm stupid because I didn't want you to be the last to know? Ivan, I told you before I told my fucking little brother. I thought you would actually care, but I guess I was wrong."

He stops, having to gulp to ease the lump in his throat. He is shaking, fighting back a sob, when he says:

"So maybe you're right - I am stupid."

He waits, but Ivan doesn't respond. Good. He doesn't want a response. He lets go of Ivan's neck and flops down onto the bed. He would leave right now, but he's too tired for another long day of walking. On top of that, he doesn't know where his clothes are, and he doesn't feel like looking for them. Plus, it's dark.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he must have.

When he wakes up, he is on the couch once more. He has his clothes and he is wrapped in blankets. Looking out a window, he can see that it's morning. Did Ivan dress him and move him back here during the night? He seriously doesn't remember. He just realizes that Ivan is next to him, sleeping, in his arms. He is so close to the edge that he might just fall off the couch. Gilbert frees himself from the blankets and steps over the sleeping man carefully. He goes back to where he left the rest of his soaking clothes. They are still damp, but they will have to do, because there's no way he could make himself stay here any longer. Still, the clothes feel gross against his body. Before he opens the door, he looks back at Ivan.

He should have never expected Ivan to care. He really is stupid.

This trip was a waste of time.

"Gilbert?" a sleepy voice says.

Oh. That's just great. He can't stop himself from frowning.

"What?" he practically hisses.

"You're leaving already?"

Ivan sounds concerned, hurt, and most of all, confused. Why does he sound confused? Does he not remember what he said last night? This makes Gilbert even more angry. He wants to scream a thousand things to Ivan in every language that he knows, but it isn't worth the effort. He wants to run over and kick Ivan in the face a thousand times for hurting him, for making him get the impression that he cared, but it isn't worth the effort. He thought Ivan was worth the effort, but apparently he isn't.

"Gilbert, what's wrong?"

_Why do you sound so sincere?_

"Stop pretending you care," he snarls, in an attempt to not let his voice crack.

"What are you talking about?"

_Fuck it. Just fuck it._

"Jerk," he spits out and slams the door, disappearing behind it. In his soggy clothes and clunky boots, he walks in the waist-high snow. He hears a voice behind him, but he's not turning back. There's nothing left for him back there anymore.

Hurt and frostbitten, he walks until he is in Germany again.

Then he takes a train.

_Go back. _

He never goes back to Russia.

_Go back._

He is gone too soon.

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Over-dramatic shit, durrrrr. On another note, I think this is the most dialogue I have ever written in a fanfiction. I mean, holy shit, there was _a lot_. For me anyway, heh. And, man, I have written so many fanfictions that include Prussia as a main character. I really got to mix it up, you know? GOTTA GET SOME VARIETY IN HERE. Anyway, please feel free to review. I like it when people share their thoughts. o3o


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